Like a Game of Chess
by NerdGirl95
Summary: After the war Ron reflects on the game of chess, it's role in the war and the fact it has not been played in the Burrow for the past ten years. Written for the Quidditch League Round 4.


**Written for the Quidditch League Round 4 - start and end with the same word (Keeper: preposition)**

**Like a Game of Chess**

It is funny how much a war can change you, Ron muses as he looks around the mass of people crammed into the Burrow. Even after ten years, Voldemort's reign of terror had consequences. It wasn't just the big things either, like the extra chair at the table or the scars that littered the bodies of every adult. No, it was the little things that really made the difference. The sudden hush at 6 o'clock as if they were all waiting for Fred's nightly prank to begin, or the way they would flinch if approached from behind without warning.

But perhaps the strangest of changes was the games they played. Gobstones was a favourite amongst the children – it had been when he was their age too – and the adults, much to Molly's simultaneous annoyance and amusement, would play endless games of exploding snap on the carpet, as if they were still teenagers trying to fill in the seemingly endless hours on the Hogwarts Express. However there was one game that had never been played in the Burrow since the war ended. Despite Ron's – and most of his sibling's – obsession with the game as children, none of them could bear the sight of a chess board.

It was weird really, that a small piece of wood would be the thing they were most afraid of after all they had seen, but it was the truth. He could never quite put his finger on what it was that had created the aversion; it wasn't McGonagall's set from First Year, because he had had no problem with the game for another six years, and even if that had caused _his_ aversion, it shouldn't have affected his siblings that badly. No, it must have been something else, some deeper reason.

And as his eyes swept the room, taking in Harry's lightning-bolt scar and George's missing ear and the way Molly's eyes kept flicking to the clock, as if expecting Fred's hand to move even after ten years, he suddenly realised why they never played chess anymore. Because as they played chess in this room as kids or at Hogwarts as teenagers, they were unwittingly playing a much larger game of chess, one that they had no choice but to play.

It is funny, how much a war is like a game of chess when you look at it the right way. Two sides – light and dark – playing to win, no matter the cost. Voldemort and Harry had taken the place of the kings; the so-called leaders, the ones on whom everything else relied. As soon as one fell, the other side had won the game. He supposed the queens had been Dumbledore and Bellatrix, always by the side of their king, willing to do just about anything to ensure his survival. Of course Bellatrix's definition of "anything" had been a lot different to Dumbledore's. The Order had made up the rest of Harry's back row, putting themselves in danger and making sacrifices to ensure he survived to the final confrontation. The Inner Circle had been Voldemort's equivalent, although Ron supposed they did it more out of fear and a thirst for power than true loyalty.

The pawns – the pawns were the hardest to think about, if he was really honest with himself. In a game of chess, sacrifices must be made. And more often than not – especially in the beginning – it is the pawns that get lost. The little pieces who go ahead of the real heroes, preparing the way and taking down as many as they can before they too are removed from the playing board. For Voldemort, his pawns were literal. Go there, kill that person, perform that crime. No choice, no way out. He didn't care who got hurt along the way, as long as he himself survived and the opposing King was annihilated.

Harry, well Ron highly doubted that he would appreciate the pawn analogy. If it had been up to him, Harry would have protected his pawns, tucking them safely away from the game. Harry's pawns were the DA, and the other students who stood up and fought with him. They were the ones who would do anything as long as it ensured a win for Harry and a loss for Voldemort. If truth be told, Harry's pawns weren't really pawns at all. Instead of being sent out to do the hard work and set up the King for his one, final task, Harry's pawns went out at the same time Harry did. They went out of their own accord, stalling, buying their King more time, but at the same time knowing their King was out there too, engaging in a fight of his own, and their only job was to take out as many of Voldemort's pawns as they could to ensure Harry wouldn't have to later.

Even the two kings took on characteristics of different types of player, Ron mused further. Voldemort was the ruthless player, not caring how many of his own pieces he lost, as long as the final victory was his. He had no qualms about sacrificing his pieces to the game, acting almost unfeelingly towards them. Almost – no one could deny that both anger and indifference were feelings, and the Death Eaters had definitely experienced both. But when it came to the safety of his pieces on the board, Voldemort could have cared less. Unless it was about Harry's pieces. It was almost as if Voldemort's only strategy was "take out everyone, and then take the king last so he can watch all of his other pieces fall first." There was no clear strategy, no battle plan; just cold, ruthless battle. Voldemort's playing style could not have been more different from Harry's if he had tried.

Harry was the reluctant-but-earnest strategist. He didn't really _want_ to play the game, but now that he found himself there he wasn't going to lose. He was also going to ensure the survival of as many of his pieces as possible, even if it meant that he must sacrifice himself in the end. Harry was a player with a head full of strategies, easily switching from one to the next as needed. He felt no great need to protect himself, instead darting all over the board in order to protect his pieces. He realised the true value of them, and tried to keep them alive as long as possible in order for them to complete the task they had before them, even if it took away from his own. Harry grieved for each and every piece lost, whether it be for the smallest pawn or his Queen. But he was also grateful for the game they had played and the sacrifice they had made for him.

So, as he watched the little ones wipe goo off their faces and his siblings jump hastily away from the cards about to explode in front of them, Ron finally realised just why none of them played chess anymore. And he supposed that one day their children would – they couldn't forbid them to learn it after all – and perhaps that wasn't a bad thing, if it helped them with real life as it had helped their parents. But at the same time Ron knew that none of the adults would ever play chess again, even as the years wore on and the pain associated with the war continued to fade into scars and memories. Because when you spend your childhood formulating battle plans and debating which of your enemies you should take out first, it's only natural to want to escape that when it's all over. And chess would always be an important part of his history – the hours he spent playing with his friends and family are too many to count – Ron knows that he doesn't need chess anymore. Because the game has been played, one side prevailed over the other, and the board is needed no more. And, even though chess used to be one of his favourite pastimes, he's ok with that. It's funny how a war can change you, isn't it?


End file.
